


Soundproof

by MaybeItsJustMyType



Series: Sherlolly promptology [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mirror Sex, Number Ten Downing Street, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-22 10:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/pseuds/MaybeItsJustMyType
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lilsherlockian1975 prompted me:</p><p>Can I get in on this Promptology business? It's vague, but here's what I'm looking for: stuck somewhere improbable, first time smut, wacky circumstances (the Prime Minister's personal loo perhaps?) I don't know, you decide! Let the Sherlolly shenanigans begin! (this is why I don't ask for prompts... my utter vagueness!) Hopefully this works for<br/>you!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soundproof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilsherlockian1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/gifts).



> Here it is Lilly Bee, I do not know why I've struggled with this so much. Ainé assured me it was good but I wasn't happy. I'm happier now (it's always a continuum isn't it?) and I hope you will be too!
> 
> A big thank you to my beta/fic wife Ainé, who has had the patience of a saint while I endlessly kept fiddling this one. I just couldn't get there! The only reason I didn't scrap it altogether was your constant support and assurances that you found it funny.
> 
> You've helped me so much. If this is readable it's due to your hard work.
> 
> I own nothing, all hail Moftiss for their endless torture which we all love to hate; or hate to love?

A gloomy room, matched perfectly to its occupants disposition; Mycroft Holmes sat behind his desk, he held his phone by one corner and turned it rhythmically, deep in thought. Finally he came to a decision and buzzed for Anthea.

The door glided open, weightless and silent. Anthea materialised, whispering across the well-upholstered floor, “You rang?”

Mycroft sighed, the weight of the nation heavy on his shoulders, “I require you to fix your cousin, I _need_ him on point for this.”

“There’s a myriad of ways I could fix Sherlock cousin dear, did you have specific task…or _relationship_ in mind?” Anthea asked him grinning.

Tension drained from his body. Anthea was always anticipating his needs, often times before he himself had time to feel them. “Molly Hooper, _control_ the situation.”

“Right you are Boss, Operation Sherlolly is go.” Her amused countenance and pet name for the project gave the impression of having more than a passing awareness already of the problem.

“Frivolous names aside,” his sour expression belied his comment, “It had better work.”

Saluting, him in a mocking manner, Anthea swept out again.

*****

“Hi Sherlock,” Molly beamed at him, dropping the sheaf of papers she held in her hand into her out box with a flourish. Turning back to Sherlock she raised her eyebrows and asked in a chirpy tone with a welcoming smile, “What can I do for you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, “Why are you all…” Scrunching the bridge of his nose, he made his diagnosis, “ _Happy_?” The last word uttered as though he feared it may be a contagion.

“Oh Sherlock, don’t you ever just feel happy to be alive? The sun is shining, my paper on Parasitic Disease just got accepted for publication, I’ve got a date.” Tilting her head toward him conspiratorially she assured him, “Not from work,” she winked and missed the flash of irritation that tightened his jaw and flared his nostrils.

Watching her closely, Sherlock smiled, sickly sweet and as fake as a 3 pound note, his ‘media ready face,’ the one John had made him practice. He nodded, “Yes, congratulations, a date… _wonderful_.”

“Do you need my help? I could reschedule, you know; treat 'em mean..." Molly huffed a little in a self-deprecating manner.

Clearly having no clue as to what she referred, Sherlock frowned, it was Molly’s turn to roll her eyes. He was aghast; since they’d become closer Molly had taken all sorts of liberties, she was far too familiar for his liking.

They’d become best friends, he had John of course, but John had a wife and a toddler and another on the way, he could no longer be around the way he once was. She did flatter herself that his interest in spending time with her was not solely based on John’s more frequent absences, she’d become his best girlfriend for lack of a more suitable word.

Evenings were spent watching crap telly together, they ordered food in and talked about cases - well, when Sherlock deigned to speak, they did. Often times he’d retreat into his mind palace and she’d just get on with her night around him. So her nights were filled, but platonically, Molly’s need for _physical_ companionship had reached critical mass.

Realising that she had been completely lost in thought she focused on Sherlock who was looking at her like she was deranged, “ _Sorry_ , what were you saying?”

His face said it all, being ignored by Molly Hooper was an unwelcome and unpleasant development. “I was trying to tell you that _England_ needs your help,” he replied, channelling his inner Mycroft.

She took the bait - as he knew she would - hook, line and sinker. Her eyes were shining as she looked at up at him, “Why?” Her voice more breath than tone.

“There’s a double agent in Number Ten, one of the guards,” his voice gleeful.

Molly started, “And wh-what could I do?” Pale, her hands shook, the responsibility of such a task clearly weighing heavily on her.

Sherlock on the other hand was content, the planets and stars had realigned, Molly Hooper was in his thrall once more and most - if not all - was right with his world.

“I need you to accompany me to Number Ten. It’s important.”

“Wh-what? Number Ten? _The_ Number Ten?” Molly was appalled, exaggerated shock, awe and terror played out across her face, vying for dominance.

He took pity on her flailing and offered, “Yes, I’ll be doing most of the talking, you’ll just need to accompany me as my… _assistant_.”

“Assistant? Like John? Am I being John?” She babbled, each word tripping over the next.

“Molly,” he admonished, “I’ve told you before, you do not need to be John, you will be yourself.”

“But I’m _not_ your assistant, John is?” Her eyes darted around, mirroring the inner chaos of her thoughts; she twisted her fingers, nervous energy playing out through her relentlessly dancing hands.

Reaching out he clasped her hands, effectively stilling them, thumbs brushing back and forth across her knuckles soothingly. His eyes held hers, his voice a caress as he asked, “Would you be my _partner_ Molly?”

Chest heaving, she looked up at him. His nearness, touch and voice all affecting her, “Your _partner_?” His eyes were fixed on hers, the intensity in his gaze threw her spiralling.

His smile was slow, eyes welded to hers. Molly swayed gently, he steadied her using his hands on hers as ballast, “For the case?”

Lost, she nodded; in that moment there was little she would have said no to. Sherlock leaned into her; Molly froze, eyes slipping closed. His lips brushed her forehead and she sighed.

Without releasing her hands he pulled back to look at her, his lips twitched repressing a smile as he told her, “Thank you Molly.”

Confusion reigned as she bobbed her head in agreement again. Sherlock released his hold on her hands and she reeled towards her seat. Sitting down with a thump she felt as though she needed an orange blanket and a sweetened cup of tea.

Unable to stifle the smile that was tugging his mouth up, he flung his coat out into an arc and slipped it on before he headed to the door, “I’ll pick you up at eight, formal attire.”

Bereft, she asked, “You’re leaving?” Her voice came breathy and sweet.

Enjoying the effect he was having on her he winked before repeating, “Eight o’clock Molly,” as he slipped out the door.

*****

Humming to herself as she dressed, Molly zipped up her Caroline Herrera dress, more expensive than her usual fare but certainly appropriate to meet the Prime Minister. Checking her make-up in the mirror she smiled. Hearing her text tone she turned away from her image.

_Could it be that Sherlock Holmes is excited to meet Sir Arthur George?_

Seeing Anthea’s name scroll across the screen, Molly grinned and swiped the trailing image, Anthea had intimated that she may be there tonight.

**I showed Sir Arthur a pic of you, he asked after your relationship status, thinks you’re a doll. Looks like my cousin might have some competition.**

Shaking her head fondly, Molly had to laugh, Anthea’s shamelessness was matched only by Sherlock’s. She shrugged. … _Must be a Holmes trait_ … Molly’s confidence levels soared; dressed to kill and the P.M. had called her a doll, what more could a girl ask for?

The door-bell buzzed loudly, she took one last look in the mirror before snagging her clutch and sweeping out the door. Taking the stairs at a jog she found Sherlock on the phone with Mycroft in front of a town car parked at the curb. She knew it was Mycroft from the look on his face, - complete and utter exasperation - and from his shirt sleeve which he was in the process of rolling back down, presumably after affixing a nicotine patch to his inner forearm.

They slipped into the back of the vehicle and she smiled. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over her, paying careful attention to her prominently displayed curves. Swallowing hard he closed his eyes briefly, he needed to get his head back in the game. “So, nervous about meeting Sir Arthur George?”

“Hmm, not so much, I’ve got a feeling that he’ll like me actually.” She grinned and slowly uncrossed and recrossed her legs, loving the way his eyes tracked every millimetre of flesh on display. She looked up and he dragged his attention reluctantly to her face.

Arching a brow he asked her, “You’ve got a feeling the _P.M._ will like you?”

She made a show of thinking about his question, “Hmm, well I guess I could be wrong, but I’m an upstanding citizen, so..” She trailed off, content to let her sentence hang in the air.

Allowing his eyes one last lingering look at her legs he sat back, quite sure that the P.M. would not be prone to fawning over _upstanding citizens_ , he’d probably be more interested in John, as fellow former soldiers they’d have much in common.

The car turned in through the gates at the top of the street before pulling over in front of the famous building. Sherlock gracefully slid out of the seat and offered Molly his hand. He caught her eyes, entreating her in a low voice as he did so, “Leave everything to me, no one will be expecting you to speak, it’s a case like any other.”   
Molly nodded, lips tugging, clearly suppressing mirth. He paused, his eyes flicking over her form rapidly. When Mycroft approached him from behind, he turned his head slightly, his eyes darted to towards his elder brother and then back again.

Sensing he wasn’t gaining Sherlock’s full attention, Mycroft hissed at him, “Sherlock, this is _not_ the time for your childish crush.”

Sherlock and Molly’s heads whipped toward him in perfect synchronisation, Sherlock’s mouth opened as he drew breath to refute the statement that had just been unceremoniously lobbed at him, Molly preened.

In a low and hard voice Mycroft warned, “This is not the time or the place to suddenly experience puberty, brother mine.” Sherlock drew his head back, his mouth turned down in disgust and anger. “Sherlock, we need to find out if there is a double agent, the P.M.’s life could depend on it. Do we have an understanding?”

Breathing out slowly, he dragged his thoughts back to the more concrete and solvable problem of whether or not the P.M. was in mortal danger; as he did so his face smoothed out, his manner reverting again to aloof and imperious.

Trying to remain unobtrusive, Molly came and stood next to the two men. Mycroft acknowledged her with a nod and what must pass for a smile amongst politicians.

Feeling a tug on her arm she pulled herself out of her thoughts and plastered a smile on her face. Absentmindedly she linked her arm through Sherlock’s and together they walked into Number Ten.

The first to greet them were the two agents stationed inside the house. Lounging on office chairs, discussing cricket; they looked deceptively idle. Well they might have, to anyone _other_ than Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

Standing statue still Sherlock took them in silently, eyes zig zagging rapidly. Mycroft's eyeballing was less discreet, more suggestive of I hold your balls in my hands so watch your step. Molly stood looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, inwardly marvelling at the show of testosterone being played out.

Next they were greeted by an older man and woman, both smiled in delight when they took Molly in. She beamed at them. She’d always been popular with older folk, they always found her sweet and charming.

The woman steeped forward, arms akimbo, ”I’m Alice darling, oh my, he's going to want to _devour_ you," dropping a wink at Molly as she took the offered hand and used it to swing her in and kiss her cheek. Sherlock's head tilted, eyes narrowing, disapproval gouging lines into his forehead and a furrow across the bridge of his nose. Alice, seeing his reaction chuckled, "Ooh, your fella here a bit possessive is he?"

Unable to miss the glaringly obvious signs of jealousy, Mycroft shook his head and sighed. At this point he had to wonder if just marrying the two of them off would be easier on everyone concerned, Lord knows she couldn't seem to stay away from him anymore than he could from her. Mummy would be so pleased to see Sherlock settled and she would certainly approve of the diminutive doctor.

The gentleman stepped forward next to greet Molly, “I’m Milton, sweetheart, if you need anything, or if your fella here is causing you any grief, I'm your man." He nodded and shook Molly's hand heartily. Turning to Sherlock he confided in a conspiratorial tone, "She's a doll, just the type _he_ , likes,” jerking his head into the house to give further emphasis to who _he_ was, "You'll have your hands full,” he gestured to Molly’s hand, “No riiiing.” He finished in a sing-song tone and was gratified to see Sherlock blanch.

Sherlock's thoughts were turbo charged, the old man's casual jibes had added rocket fuel to his already over revved brain. Voices in his head clamoured for attention, one voice arguing, _It would be unprofessional for Molly to date the P.M._

Another voice came hard on its heels - sounding rather like John - scoffing and demanding to know, Exactly how would Molly be behaving unprofessionally?

Yet another voice posited, _Look, if she didn't marry Meat Dagger then she would hardly be likely to run away with the P.M._

Internal John popped up again, _Are you honestly so delusional that you're comparing Sir Arthur George, decorated war hero and current Prime Minister of England to Meat Dagger_.

His expression murderous, Mycroft cleared his throat and kicked his brother’s ankle, hard. "Sherlock, if you cannot keep your mind on the case there is no reason for you to be here, _pull yourself together.”_

He reacted as though he’d been slapped, Mycroft hadn’t gotten physical since they’d both been in short trousers. He nodded and schooled his features into a neutral expression. It pained him to admit it but his brother was right, he needed to put thoughts of who Molly may or may not date aside. It wasn’t important to him anyway, just an internal glitch that he would deal with after this case, wipe his hard drive clear of whatever loop his Molly settings had been inadvertently calibrated to.

Inclining his head toward Mycroft in acquiescence, he muttered, “Shall we,” his expression was matter of fact, head held high as he swept along dragging Molly beside him.

Mycroft took in the still very much linked arms and sighed, _Sherlock is all but useless in this state. Anthea had better have this under control_.

Blowing out a deep breath he strolled after them into the sitting room. Sir Arthur George was staring at Molly as though she were the last cup of tea in England. Glancing around the room, his eyes alighted on Anthea immediately. She nodded at him looking smug. He returned her nod, his expression conveying the message very well that he was counting on her to fix this.

*****

Molly felt like she’d been dropped into a rom-com minus the romance, she was meeting the Prime Minister of England at Number Ten; as if that wasn’t bizarre enough, Mycroft and Anthea were clearly conducting some sort of conversation via what she could only guess was some sort of Holmes-ian ESP, and Sherlock was acting odd - even by his own high standards.

The tea things had been duly set out and introductions had been made - during which Sir Arthur had made enough of a fuss over Molly for Sherlock to open his mouth ready to decimate him; causing Anthea to take it upon herself to deliver a pinch to his wrist resulting in an extremely undignified and indignant sound coming out of Sherlock’s mouth.

Unable to get comfortable in the polished leather chair, Molly was excruciatingly aware of how unnecessary to today’s proceedings she really was. She was there to be Sherlock’s assistant so she thought maybe it would help for her to appear as such, in the pursuit of this she pulled her phone out of her clutch and waved it; asking Sherlock, “Shall I take notes?”

With a gleam in his eye, Sir Arthur George leaned forward, “Are you calling me for a date Miss Hooper? Anthea here assures me you're footloose and fancy free,” his eyes flicked to Sherlock, inviting a challenge.

Molly blushed, “Well, I don’t have your number, so..” She smiled and ducked her head, feeling quite brazen. He was awfully handsome though, he had a rugged sort of Hugh Grant look, she could certainly do worse if Sherlock refused to be baited.

Sherlock’s eye was twitching in time with his pulse, his mouth stretched into a rictus, desperate to change the current focus he sat forward, “So, shall we begin?”

Grinning, Sir Arthur’s eyes remained on Molly, his appreciation for her shy nature obvious, “We’ll have to see about that number later Miss Hooper.”

Looking down at her lap, Molly flushed and bit her lip. She fiddled with her phone, hoping no one would notice her shaking hands, of course if she’d looked up she would have realised that everyone gathered in the room was watching her reaction to his flirting, one of whom in particular did not appreciate the display at all.

*****

The discussion centred on a snatch of dialogue surveillance that suggested that there was a mole crouching amongst the guards at Number Ten. The plan that was put into place, after a whole lot of back and forth, was for the P.M to head out on his trip as planned with the two guards Mycroft had already personally vetted and subsequently cleared. This would leave Sherlock with the run of Number Ten for the weekend, giving him ample time to figure out the identity of the plant.

After asking a flustered Molly if she would be present upon his return and kissing her hand with a whispered, “ _Promise of more to come_ ,” the P.M. swept out. Anthea fast on his heels when he called for her to walk him to the car.

A short time later Anthea waltzed jauntily back in, smirk firmly in place. She dropped a wink at Molly and drew breath, obviously about to regale her with what had just transpired. Before she could so much as open her mouth Sherlock interrupted.

“He wants her number?” His tightened jaw and crinkled nose left no room for confusion on how he felt about this development. A change swept across his face as he added, “Of course, Molly wouldn’t want to see someone who wasn’t able to ask her to her face. Sending the friend? It’s a bit childish is it not?” He finished smugly.

Anthea’s answering tilt of her head and smile were both amused and pitying, “Actually cousin, he was unwilling to ask until he was completely certain that the two of you were not _already_ in a relationship - however clandestine, or if the _obviously_ unresolved tensions were actually heading somewhere.”

“And you of course told him the truth?” Sherlock’s eyes bored into her, inwardly he cursed his inability to deduce her accurately, since they were kids she’d been like looking into fog; you may get the odd glimpse of something if you’re lucky but for the most part it’s a mystery which gives up its secrets in its own time.

Raising an eyebrow and affecting an exaggerated parody of shock Anthea answered, “ _Of course_.”

Sherlock’s eye was twitching uncontrollably, jaw flexing rhythmically, he twisted his head to the side, closing his eyes he breathed out slowly. Anthea watched him smirking, clearly enjoying herself, it was obvious to all three of them that he desperately wanted to know what exactly her truthful answer had been.

 _Obviously whatever she’d said she’d chosen with precision to best torment him with, so what remained was a calculation. A simple calculation_. His shoulders sagged in relief. All he needed to do was figure out which one he hoped she said and whatever remained would be his answer. _I would prefer her to have said that we are not dating, obviously, because we are not._

John’s voice asked him in a disbelieving tone, _So you’re hoping he’ll take her out?_

Dread unfurled in his stomach, No! Relaxing again he thought, So only the solution remains, It’s best if he believes we are together.

 _She’ll find out_. John taunted him.

 _Shut up John!_ Sherlock’s mind felt like it was a mouse caught in a wheel, ‘round and ‘round in an endless, fruitless loop.

Mycroft stood observing him, lips twisted in a moue of disgust, angling his head toward Anthea he ordered her, “Fix this, _now_.”

Winking, Anthea took Molly by the arm, “Molly, could you come with me to the ladies room?”

Nodding absent-mindedly she allowed her hand to be threaded into Anthea’s own and trailed after her, though her eyes were riveted to Sherlock, even twisting to look at him over her shoulder as Anthea marched her determinedly out.

Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, Mycroft’s eyes continually sought out his precious umbrella. One seeing him couldn't help but wonder whether his hands were purposefully being denied access to the umbrella, as though the owner feared what said umbrella might be purposed for with regards to his lovesick little brother.

*****

Linking hands Anthea propelled Molly along the hallway. Molly’s eyes roamed over the framed portraits as she allowed herself to be dragged through to the P.M’s bedroom and ensuite. When they entered the P.M.’s bedroom her eyes were like saucers. Anthea used her shock and awe to her advantage; yanking her through the door. Molly’s eyes darted around, her brow furrowing, “Why are we..?” Her words were cut short as Anthea pushed her in before unlinking theirs hand and closing the door.

Anthea blew out a breath through pursed lips, leaning against the door she called in a wheedling tone, “Molly? Can you just give me one moment out here alone? I just need privacy for just a sec. Could you wait for me?” Anthea wheedled, hitting just the right tone to inspire Molly’s very easily activated empathy.

“Oh-oh, oka-ay,” Molly’s voice was hesitant but understanding.

One down, one to go. Sherlock may not be so easy to corral. She made her way back out to where he and Mycroft had remained. Through the old fashioned and stuffy but still rather lush hallways until she walked into the sitting room.

The two men were in unchanged positions. Sherlock was running his hands over his face and his eyes were flicking about rapidly, clearly in puzzle mode. Mycroft was standing by the fire place, leaning on the mantle, his eyes trained on his brother, his expression was not one of understanding. The former having reached critical mass and the latter clearly in no mood to sympathise with what he considered an emotional glitch.

"He'll be running on all cylinders by the morning, in fact, he may well be better than ever.” Anthea assured Mycroft with a chuckle.

Wary, Mycroft cocked a brow, "Indeed?"

Answering him her smile was wide and sure, "Oh yes, now help me get him in Arthur's ensuite, it's the only room in the whole place that has unique codes that _he_ ," she gestured to Sherlock by jutting her head toward him, "Is unaware of."

With a look of bored resignation he asked, ”And what makes you so certain he won't just deduce the code?” He remained singularly unimpressed. His eyes continued to make their voyage again and again to his precious umbrella.

Her delight was obvious; her toothy grin shark like, "Oh I can be absolutely _positive_ he will not.” Mycroft sighed his impatience growing, dragging his gaze back to Anthea he tilted his head toward her, his displeasure signalled clearly without the need for words.

“I myself set that particular code." Anthea’s smirk, grew impossibly wider.

Umbrella finally forgotten, he gave her his full measure of respect and attention, his answering smile was a thing of beauty. Looking at Anthea with reverence, he saluted her, “You are the devil herself, cousin mine.”

Mentally Anthea rolled up her sleeves, part two of her plan was likely to be more difficult. She needed Sherlock but he was still lost in the corridors of his mind palace completely unravelled by the conundrum of what she may or may not have disclosed. _Good, perfect_.

She called to him, urgency colouring her voice, " _Sherlock_? There’s a possible listening device planted in the ensuite of Sir Arthur's sleeping quarters. Ingenious really," she mused, "No one would recall the need to keep quiet when they wake from a dream, dishevelled, faculties diminished."

Nodding, Sherlock dragged himself back to reality, "Show me."

After one last smug glance at Mycroft, she nodded, a hint of a smile playing around her mouth as she gestured, "After you dear cousin."

From his position by the fireplace Mycroft watched the two of them go, his trust in Anthea was implicit, it always had been; but his fear for Sherlock and his endless emotional entanglements weighed heavily on his mind, he sighed and moved to pour himself a drink.

*****

Making his way along the same path Molly had just taken Sherlock swept through the dwelling, deducing his way as unerringly as a homing pigeon. Pushing his way into the bedroom he turned to Anthea, his brow furrowed, the bridge of his nose folded as he asked, ”Where is _Molly_?"

”Oh she's helping out with a rather thorny problem that Mycroft is strongly insisting that I resolve.” Anthea tossed off as if it was of no consequence.

He froze for a moment and then shrugged, as soon as he could get in the bathroom and figure out what, if any listening device had been installed he could find out what exactly Mycroft had Molly doing and why.

When he opened the door to the bathroom he saw Molly immediately, it would be difficult not to, hardly a wide open space in there. Molly smiled, "Is Anthea with you?"

Sherlock stared at her, his head cocked to one side, his expression would have been dangerous to almost anyone other than Molly. He was caught off guard too easily due to his emotional flux, he reacted altogether too slowly to Anthea's shove on his lower back.

Stumbling into the bathroom with an _Oof_ , he heard the door code being punched in and the beeps confirming its successful initiation. His face fell, "Stupid, stupid."

"What's wrong? Where’s Anthea?" Molly got up from her chair and moved to the door, she grasped the handle and tried to turn it, her eyebrows knitted together, turning to look at him, “Sherlock?” Raising her voice she called out, “ _Anthea_?”

Sherlock sighed, “Don’t bother, they’ve locked us in, they won’t be able to hear you anyway,” his eyes roamed the room looking for any means of making an escape, he soon gave up, it was the P.M.’s personal ensuite, it was secure even against the wiles of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly sat down in an arm chair and crossed her legs, lips twitching with pleasure when Sherlock’s eyes caressed her thighs as her dress slipped up, ”Locked us in? Why? Has something happened?"

He remained caught on the smooth, creamy flesh of her thighs for a moment before he forced himself to close his eyes, ”No, but they're hoping something will."

Fear ran a cold finger down Molly’s spine chasing away the delight she had taken in his appreciation for her body, ”To _us?_ Is this part of the case?” She drew her legs up underneath her in a protective posture and waited for Sherlock to explain.

”No, this is Mycroft meddling, we'll be here until the morning so I suggest you make yourself comfortable Molly.” he folded his arms, his expression showing his displeasure.

Shock and irritation warred for top billing as she asked, ”Until the morning? Why? What about the double-agent-spy stuff?”

"Because Mycroft is altogether too fond of controlling me.” he sighed, running his hands over his face.

“What?" Molly looked around the bathroom as though Mycroft may suddenly pop out of a cupboard, umbrella and all.

"I'm sorry Molly, it's not going to be a comfortable night.” He pressed his lips together, resigned.

Molly laughed, _It could certainly be worse,_ "There's a fridge in here! A _fridge_! What he could he possibly need it for in a bathroom?"

"Medication, in case the power goes out and he's in here, he's the P.M., everything must be completely controlled."

"Well, lucky him," Molly sat back down in her chair and looked dreamy for a moment, imagining what life must be like when you have everyone waiting on you and fawning.

"You could join him in his luck," Sherlock's cheek fluttered independently of his speech, "He seemed to be quite taken with you." Slumping gracefully into the matching chair he steepled his fingers in front of his face.

"Oh, I don't think he was serious in his regard for me Sherlock, he's a bit of a player isn't he? Gets around?” She grinned at him, sharing the joke.

"He was genuinely interested in you, not as a conquest.” Sherlock gritted his teeth, though he was more unhappy than angry.

Molly blushed, " _Oh_ , well that's unexpected to say the least.” She looked down at her hands, not sure how to react.

" _Why_ is that unexpected? Men ask you on dates with an alarming frequency, you are beautiful and intelligent.” His face betrayed no emotion though his eyes flicking to her to check her reaction gave him away.

Flummoxed, she looked up at him with narrowed eyes, ”You think I'm beautiful?"

”Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood..” His voice and manner were steel, barriers being erected even as he answered her, truthfully - or so he thought.

"You're dodging the question Mr Holmes.” Molly interrupted him, voice stronger, eyes hard, unwilling to let him wiggle his way out of a proper answer - she deserved at least that much after all he’d said over the years.

"Of course I find you beautiful.” he rolled his eyes dismissively as if the matter was trifling and Molly was behaving foolishly.

”Of course?” Molly echoed, biting her inner lip to keep from smiling too broadly.

"Stop fishing," he gave her a wry smile and went on, "Have you figured out why we're in here?”

“I may have an inkling, how long?” Her smile own mirrored his.

“They’ll keep us here until morning.” He heaved a sigh.

“ _Morning?_ So I assume we’ll let them think they've won and when they've left you'll punch in the door code, right?”

There was a pause, Sherlock shifted around uncomfortably, mumbling, he admitted, “I don’t know the code,” his embarrassment would have been amusing under other circumstances.

“ _You_ don’t know the code? So deduce it!” Molly sat up, untucking her legs, ferocious now.

“ _I can’t!_ Anthea set it.” Sagging, he went on, “I can’t deduce her. Ever since we were kids Allie has been opaque to me.”

"So we're stuck in here? Why did you let her lock us in? Did you _want_ to be locked in with me Sherlock Holmes?" Molly considered him, "I think you did. I think you have feelings for me and you want a push.” She slid forward to the edge of her seat, her dress sliding further up her thighs as she did so.

Sherlock gaped at her, eyes drinking in the expanse of skin bare to his view, his confusion increased when she hooked her heel onto the seat of the chair and started fiddling with the buckle on her shoe. Her thighs were completely exposed, revealing a pair of white suspenders and a flash of white silk between her thighs. Sherlock licked his lips, he was already half hard, not something he could easily hide in his ultra -tight trousers.

Continuing in a conversational tone as though discussing the weather, "I think it's time that you grew up Mr Holmes, you don't want anyone else to have me, but you don't want me yourself, it's either you or Sir Arthur and I know whose name I'd rather scream." Molly stood, unzipped her dress and stepped out of it.

The air sparked with the energy of potential; things that could be. Sherlock stared at Molly uncomprehendingly, his breath came fast and heavy. His eyes were dilated and fixed on her. She was breathtaking.

She stood in her bra, underwear, suspenders and stockings. She leaned back, clutching the basin, encouraging him to look. He made no move to stop her when she stepped towards him and climbed into his lap, in fact his hands came up to steady her waist. Molly was gratified to feel he was already hard. Her core was centred over his aching, engorged cock.

Their eyes sparked, electricity jumping between them. Sherlock curled a hand around her neck and brought her mouth down to his. He nipped at her lower lip, punishing her for tempting him. Groaning he slid his tongue along her lower lip, Molly moaned and closed her eyes. With the hand that remained on her waist he manoeuvred her harder against his throbbing prick, “Molly,” his voice had a desperate edge.

Frantic, she tugged his hair and plunged her tongue into his mouth, pressing the length of her body against his. When he felt her breasts against his chest he reached blindly for them, crushing them through the lacy cups of her bra. Molly reached behind her and undid the clasp; her breasts fell into his hands. The weight of them in his hands made his hips buck, she reached up and slipped her arms through the straps and let the bra slide off.

Awestruck, he gazed up at her, already looking half undone. Molly sunk her hands into his hair as he bent his head and pulled a nipple into his mouth. Her hips rocked wildly back and forth, his tongue was absolutely miraculous. His large hands were warm on her skin, one kneading her breasts and the other splayed out across her back.

“Hmm, Sherlock, oh,” he pulled away and looked up at her blearily. Her lips were swollen and red, her chest was heaving, she unbuttoned him with shaking hands. When the last button ceded to her wishes she pushed it back off his shoulders. She swallowed hard, his chest was porcelain, scars peppered here and there. She ran her hands over him, pressing the heels of her hands into his nipples.

Hissing in a breath he grasped her around the waist and lifted her carefully down. Standing up he looked down at her, eyes fierce and demanding. He tugged her hair at the base of her skull to tilt her head up and kissed her deeply whilst running a palm firmly over her sex. Molly sucked on the tip of his tongue. Her hands inched down to unzip his fly, she could feel a rough outline of his size through his tailored trousers as she squeezed briefly. The heavy feel of him in her palm made her long to feel the silken skin.

Finally the zip cooperated and she unceremoniously dove in. Sherlock hadn’t stopped kissing her for a single second. Her hand slipped over the smooth skin of his pulsing cock, he cursed and plunged his hand into her knickers. He hissed as his fingers brushed her wet and warm folds. Molly stroked him languidly, smearing the resulting pearl of fluid around with her dextrous fingers.

In a guttural voice he demanded, “Need you, need _inside_ ,” punctuating the statement by slipping two fingers into her clenching centre.

“Oh god yes, please fuck me,” Molly’s hand was pistoning back and forth, rapidly, her eyes were frantic, she wanted to be _possessed_ by him.

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, needing to gain control. With his teeth gritted he ordered her “Take your pants down and lean on the basin, stand on the stool.”

Molly stumbled back, blindly fumbling until her hands hit the basin. Her eyes were on him as he sat down on the chair to remove his shoes. Sherlock leaned back and stroked himself, well aware of her eyes upon him. Molly stopped moving, mesmerised by his hand moving on his prick. Her pussy pulsed in time to his movements. She moaned, desperate for his touch, when she tore her eyes away she glanced at his face. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze shifted to her pants.

Understanding she slipped them down, they were soaked, his eyes took in every single detail. Molly pressed a knuckle into her mouth and bit down to avoid begging him again.

Reaching down he slipped off one shoe and then the other, standing up he pushed his trousers and pants down, stepping out of them deftly. Two steps and he was in front of her again, he took her hands and she stepped up onto the stool, bringing their height to a more equal footing. His cock bobbed up and down brushing her clit as he pulled her into his body.

His kiss was pure heat, like he had harnessed a volcano, lava flowed between them, igniting their senses. His voice was taut when he spoke, “I _am_ in love with you Molly, you shouldn’t have done this, I’ll never be able to stop now.” He ran his prick back and forth over her clit.

Molly threw her head back moaning with abandon, “I want you inside me, please, please stop making me wait.”

Sherlock spun her away so she faced the mirror, her arms went up around his neck, elongating her torso. Smooth beautiful lines, her breasts jutting up proudly. His cock, red and slick from her heat could be seen between her legs, both of them focused their attention on the sight. Sherlock reached under and positioned himself at her entrance, pushing in, the angle enhanced by the stool that Molly stood upon.

“Ah-hh, kiss me, kiss me Sherlock,” Molly jerked out. Her head fell to the side facing his, as they kissed he ran a hand down her torso until his fingers brushed her clit.

“I want you to feel good Molly.” He wrapped one arm around her stomach, holding her up. He circled her sweet nub as he thrust up into her furiously. He watched their reflection, his sharp gaze taking everything in.

Her body was stretched taut, she clung to him, dangling, pleasure flowed freely through her body. She was impaled on his cock as he ruthlessly kept pounding into her, needing friction. His fingers swirling over her clit.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh that feels so good,” her body went rigid, she clamped around Sherlock, the sweetest feeling trickled through her veins, increasing until she swept away in a tidal wave of pure pleasure. He caught her lips again and they fell over into the abyss together; the slapping sounds, the harsh breathing, the groans all made Sherlock lose control completely. His body erupted with bliss, his blood effervescent with the pure thrill that thrummed through his limbs. He tightened his grip on her, driving in deeper still as his seed pulsed into her. His eyes were screwed shut as he groaned obscenely into her mouth.

His mind was slow to reconnect with his body, thankfully he still had a firm hold on Molly. She was slumped over his arm, like a rag doll; panting, flushed, utterly debauched. His first thought; fear that he’d hurt her, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

"Oh Sherlock, you can hurt me like that anytime you want to.” She draped her floppy body over the basin, trying to regain her breath.

Sherlock paled, a look of horror twisted his beautiful features, shame followed closely. Molly turned to look at him and seeing his distress, palmed his cheek, “No Sherlock, you didn’t hurt me, that was perfect.” Her look and voice were gentle, reassuring.

Blowing out a gust of air in relief, he asked, “Perfect?”

Molly nodded, softly repeating, “Perfect.”

An innocent childlike expression of wonder graced his gorgeous features. Stumbling back, he sat on the chair pulling Molly into his lap, they were both breathing hard, dazed but happy. He arranged Molly on his knees, then threaded his arms around her and rested his head on top of hers.

Laughing, Molly pointed out, “Only you, Sherlock Holmes would end up having have sex when you happen to be in the P.M.’s private ensuite after abstaining for most of your adult life.” She relaxed into his hold, body fluid with the chemical cocktail rush her hormones were rewarding her with.

“Yes, I do believe I’ve got one over Three Continents Watson,” he chuckled.

“And G.I. Jane,” Molly added. They dissolved into gales of laughter, when they finally stopped laughing Sherlock’s phone chimed a text alert. Molly reached down and scooped it up off the floor snorting when she read the text.

**The ensuite is not soundproof, you've got ten minutes to dress and I’ll open the door.**

Looking over her shoulder Sherlock read the message, laughter bubbled up in his chest and rumbled against her, suffusing her with overwhelming happiness.

They dressed without too much fuss although every once in a while their eyes would catch and their laughter would rekindle. It set the tone for the change in their relationship to something more intimate. To the great shock of their friends and family they were easy and relaxed together, laughter was common and shared often.

**Author's Note:**

> The line 'I know whose name I'd rather scream' was inspired by 'Let Me Be Your Fantasy' by Ohaine. As I'm sure you'll all agree that is a super sexy fic and the line was too good not to include. It also serves to pay homage to one of my fave fics ever..
> 
> Please give me the compliment of a kudos or a comment etc if you enjoyed this. It's really lovely to know I'm not shouting into the void..
> 
> Come and find me on Tumblr, I'm [sweet-sweet-escape](http://sweet-sweet-escape.tumblr.com), I'm a chatter box!!


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